


The Beast of Pont Vanis

by Princeliest



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anti-Witcher Sentiments, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Fix-It, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Apologies, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29750934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princeliest/pseuds/Princeliest
Summary: “Hello, Jaskier,” Geralt mutters to the ceiling. “How have you been? Despite what our parting may have implied, I hope you are doing well. I like your new song, even though it sounds incredibly inaccurate in most respects. Please tell me more about it, because I am interested in you, and not because I need the information to earn coin.”Yeah, that’ll go over fabulously.Leaving behind the ruins of his life on the same mountaintop he brought them down upon, Geralt follows a trail of rumor and song to hunt a sea monster. Along the way, he finds Jaskier - and when he does, working together to hunt down the beast seems like as good a plan as any to communicate wordless apology. Unfortunately for both the contract and their relationship, the world sees fit to throw a bigoted alderman, a mourning prostitute, and a noblewoman's cheating husband into the works, thoughly gumming up Geralt's attempts to get absolutely anything done.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 30
Kudos: 121





	1. now the tavern's empty

**Author's Note:**

> This story is heavily inspired by Voltaire's 'the Beast of Pirate's Bay' (and is also where Jaskier's lyrics come from). It is a delightful song, the spirit of which fits in really well with the Witcher verse in both theme and content - however, if you haven't heard it before, then I recommend _not_ listening to more than, say, about the first half of it. Please trust me on that!
> 
> Thanks for clicking into my first foray into this fandom! I watched the show quite a while back and enjoyed it greatly, but I didn't fall head over heels in love with the characters until I started playing _Witcher 3: Wild Hunt_ recently, so this is a bit of a mish-mash of the various canons. I'm taking the timeline from the TV canon, but I'm taking most of my Geralt characterization from Wild Hunt - regardless, I hope you enjoy!

“Gather, weary travelers,” warbles the unmistakable sound of voice and lute, “for I have a tale to tell - it might just save your lives, but only if you listen well!”

Geralt groans, and thumps his forehead against the door leading into the food-and-board inn he was about to enter. Unbecoming behavior of someone who wants to maintain the impression of a stoic witcher, maybe, but nobody’s looking. No, every living soul in the vicinity is _inside_ the inn. Maybe because it’s pouring fit to drown a horse outside, or maybe it’s because a very renowned bard is playing there for the evening. Debuting a new song, even, or so it seems - Geralt hasn’t heard this one yet, at least, and last he checked Jaskier had been working on something a whole lot more melancholy on their way around the mountain. Nothing like this forebodingly upbeat, maritime ballad.

“‘Cause there, before the breakers, and just around the _waaaay_ -”

Why didn’t Geralt _listen_ when Jaskier mentioned wanting to go to the coast? He was hoping for at least another few weeks to wallow in his own emotional avoidance before being confronted with… all of this. In fact, the only thing that he was hoping to confront in the coming days is the rumor that’s been circulating about a sea monster abducting sailors and townspeople alike in Pont Vanis. 

“- there’s a sign that says, ‘Beware! The beast of Vanis Bay!’”

That. That rumor exactly. That rumor, which he had been looking to find a lead on (and find some dry shelter while he’s at it, for practicality’s sake) by asking around the closest inn. Inns, after all, have bards and gossips and travelers and at least a few locals that could point him to the alderman to ask after the posted reward.

How convenient, that the first inn he finds should contain a bard singing about the very beast he’s come here to slay. If only it had been _any other bard_.

Geralt allows himself exactly one more thump of his head on the door before dragging himself upright (and dragging it is, when he’s soaked to the bone despite his cloak, and his hair is dripping icy rainwater down the back of his tunic, cold and comforting as a drowner’s embrace) and shoving his way through the door.

Well - less shoving and more gently levering, because he’s found a sudden appreciation for the virtues of going unnoticed. Geralt is no stranger to the cold side-eye of a wary local, nor the starry-eyed stare of a patron that’s never seen a witcher before and is too tipsy for self-preservation. Those things _bother_ him, surely, but it’s a muted sort of bother. The kind that slides off his back, after years and decades of familiarity.

He just… doesn’t want to interrupt Jaskier’s performance. He hasn’t heard this song yet, and while he’s traveled without the bard plenty in the recent years, the road after their parting in the mountains has been uniquely muted. There’s war on the horizon, and war in Geralt’s heart, too.

Bah. Maybe he _should_ interrupt, if he’s getting so poetically maudlin. It’s likely Jaskier’s influence, after all.

“Some say he’s a guppy,” Jaskier sings into the warm, ale-sharp air, “a kid threw in the sea! He ate so many sailors, now he’s bigger than a tree! His teeth, as sharp as scissors, his claws - they are like _knives_ … and if you think he’s ugly, wait ‘till you see his insides! _Oh-_ ”

Hm. Jaskier segues into a raucous chorus, and Geralt leans back against the doorway, tugging his cloak’s hood farther down over his face. He’s content to pass under notice for a while longer, though it necessitates tipping his head at an angle that precludes being able to actually watch his friend’s performance.

It doesn’t sound like any monster he’s immediately familiar with, but Jaskier _is_ prone to exaggeration. Most ocean-dwelling creatures fall under three categories - the sapient (and thus likely to stay far away from human civilization), the monstrous (which live in deeper water than the notoriously shallow bay of Pont Vanis), and the drowned dead (which lack all the characteristics Jaskier has sung).

It’s possible that a deep sea monstrosity has managed to trap itself in the bay, but it seems more likely that something from farther inland has made its way to the area. A wipper, maybe, tamed and then abandoned by a nereid, now feral and roaming the coast, lashing out at whatever or whoever it comes across in its lamentations.

“Some say he’s a serpent that came straight from hell!”

Now _that_ sounds like a wipper.

“To eat the souls of pirates, and other ne’er-do-wells!”

Geralt rolls his eyes and pushes off the doorway. And _there’s_ the embellishment. He’d do just as well spending the rest of the song haggling himself a place to stay for the next few nights and then interrogating Jaskier about where he got his information as he would actually _listening_ to it. It’s a popular beat, clearly, the inn’s patrons stomping along as the tempo picks up, but Geralt doubts even half of the details are rooted in truth.

The inn is crowded and noisy even without the music, but it’s warm and… well, not entirely dry, but the only moisture is from spilled ale that sticks his boots to the wooden floors and the leftover rain that Geralt himself is tracking into the place. Everyone is too distracted by Jaskier’s singing to pay Geralt any attention, so he _widely_ circumvents the small platform set up for bardic performances - not quite a proper stage, but clearly regularly used - to make his way to the counter.

“One room,” Geralt says, pressing his coin to the bar counter. The young woman tending it jumps, jerked out of whatever reverie Jaskier’s music has induced in her. “And board for my horse. One night to start.”

“Uh-huh, sure, mister,” she mumbles, scooping up the coin absent-mindedly and reaching under the counter for a ring of keys. She slides one off without looking and drops it - not quite into his palm, apparently unwilling to take her eyes off the performance, but years of training and getting imbued with mutagens have, at the very least, given Geralt the reflexes to catch a dropped key.

“Breakfast’s at six,” she tells him distractedly, “and lunch at noon, but the room only comes with one or the other.”

“Mm,” Geralt acknowledges, and makes his way upstairs to the trailing sounds of Jaskier’s singing.

“ _Don’t you sail, and don’t you row, and certainly don’t you swim…_ ”

The proprietor - or her father, or whoever actually owns this place, because Geralt doubts it’s run by a woman that doesn’t look like she’s barely even scraped two decades of life - is going to be in for a shock tomorrow when she realizes what, exactly, she’s rented one of her rooms to. For now, Geralt is happy to take advantage of the good will that Jaskier has once again bought him, and change into something less… _wet_.

If he’s going to be confronting Jaskier downstairs soon, he’d like at least to do it in the comfort of dry clothes. If that means shucking his armor and weapons, too, well - hopefully it will put the bard more at ease. Geralt doubts that a little bit of mountaintop shouting is enough to put the fear of witchers into Jaskier, but he also doubted that Jaskier would actually be _gone_ when Geralt finally descended from the dragon hunt, and look where that’s gotten them both.

He slumps onto the bed and rubs the heels of his palms against his eyes.

Preparation is what makes for a witcher’s survival, and Geralt is so very unprepared for this.

“Hello, Jaskier,” Geralt mutters to the ceiling, because he cares for his horse and thus Roach is downstairs in the stable with fresh bedding and clean hooves. He’s not so desperate for a sounding board as to go out into the deluge again, so he will have to settle for talking to himself. “How have you been? Despite what our parting may have implied, I hope you are doing well. I like your new song, even though it sounds incredibly inaccurate in most respects. Please tell me more about it, because I am interested in you, and not because I need the information to earn coin.”

That’ll go over fabulously. How does one prepare to apologize?

Does he even _have to_ apologize? He and Jaskier are no strangers to the occasional bouts of spite and needling, and twenty years of companionship - of Jaskier being his, ah, ‘very best friend in the whole world’ - means that they’ve gone through plenty of tiffs. Geralt always forgives Jaskier, and Jaskier always forgives Geralt. Apologies are usually implied, not required. Granted, Geralt has very rarely been so vicious as he was on the mountain, but even in the moment he could see that Jaskier _understood_.

He understood that Geralt was hurting, and lashing out, and - yes, being unfair. And if he understands that Geralt was being unfair, then doesn’t that mean he understands that Geralt was by no means being sincere, and thus there is no real cause for hatred or hurt between the two of them?

An apology feels like a false acknowledgment that Geralt’s vitriol that day was sourced in genuine resentment.

That is the thought that stays percolating in his mind as Geralt thumps back downstairs, boots still leaving wet prints on the creaking wood but otherwise dry. He gave himself an hour, listening carefully for the singing filtering up through the cracks in the inn’s second floor to make sure Jaskier hadn’t left yet, and when the noise began to wind down, he made his way to meet his friend.

When Geralt sees him, Jaskier is leaning against the same counter where Geralt dropped his coin earlier. His lute is packed away in its case, propped up against the barstool between his knees, and there are two spots of pink high on his cheeks as he wets his over-wrought throat with some ale. He’s languid and soft-limbed, exhausted but satisfied with a good performance, and leaning his cheek into one palm as he watches the lyrist that has taken his place on the small stage for a more sedate late-evening discography.

As a consequence, he doesn’t see Geralt until he sits down next to the bard, thunking a fresh flagon on the counter between them and shoving it forward to replace Jaskier’s dwindling supply.

“Well, hell- _oh!_ Oh, ah, that’s - hello!” Jaskier flusters, the unhurried greeting turning into an uncharacteristic loss for words as his eyes shoot up to meet Geralt’s. He straightens up in his seat, gripping his cup with both hands, and his shoulders edge at the dire risk of curling inwards rather pathetically. Not exactly the reception that Geralt was hoping for, especially when the sudden jump in Jaskier’s heart beats fails to calm after the moment of initial surprise is over.

“Geralt,” Jaskier chokes out, “Fancy seeing you here, big guy.”

“Mm.” Geralt inclines his head, shifting on the stool so that he’s not facing Jaskier quite so directly. “Heard your song earlier. Here” - he pushes the ale closer - “take this. You sound like you’ve been singing for hours.”

The bard blinks once, staring at the peace offering. Geralt waits, patient and placid and all a manner of other words that amount to generally doing his best to not look like he’s hedging his perception of the state of their friendship on whether or not Jaskier takes the drink. After a delay that is rather out of the norm in terms of the speed with which Jaskier usually accepts free alcohol, he takes it.

“Thank you,” he says, less choked. There’s a very low hoarseness to his voice, barely perceptible to human hearing, which is typical to how he sounds after lengthy performances. It warms his voice, and deepens it slightly - makes him sound sweet. It’s a good voice for Jaskier to croon into the evening with, for all that doing so would push him to pains. “That’s very kind of you.”

Geralt shrugs. It’s just what he owes Jaskier for the ease with which Geralt was able to rent his room.

Jaskier takes a slow sip of the ale, making a small sound in the back of his throat when he realizes Geralt bothered to pay for the good stuff, and then a bigger gulp. When he puts it down, he stares up at Geralt with a new look in his eye, like he’s steeled himself for something. His heart rate is finally closer to normal.

“So,” Jaskier declares, leaning forward in his seat, “you listened to my song? Which one? I should hold offense, I think, that I played for so long and you only listened to _one_ , but you look rather like a drowned rat - or wolf, I suppose - and I think I have to pardon you for apparently having escaped my melodious company in favor of a change of clothes.”

The longer he talks, the more he smoothes out, and Geralt finds his own shoulders losing tension in a direct mirror of Jaskier’s. This is… normal. This is how it should be. Perhaps an apology really isn’t necessary - at least not a verbal one. Just as Geralt is familiar with Jaskier’s loquaciousness, Jaskier is familiar with Geralt’s occasional lack thereof. The ale and the company speaks for him, he hopes.

“The one about the beast of the bay,” Geralt says, “though it doesn’t sound like any beast I’ve encountered before.”

“Ah, well, you know how it is!” Jaskier waves him off with a pitchy laugh, “The devil’s in the details for you witchers, but embellishment and ornamentation are the purview of a bard’s work!”

“What were you embellishing on, then?”

Jaskier pauses, then, and his gaze falls to his drink. His lip quickly joins his cheeks in ruddiness, as he worries at it with vicious determination.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asks, brows furrowing.

“Oh, not much,” Jaskier replies finally, eyes skittering to the side. “It’s just - ‘Oh, I’m doing fine, Geralt, thanks for asking. How are you? Good as well?’ I do suppose it was a bit much to ask that you might’ve come to the area having heard I was here, but I was at least hoping - ah, I’ve had too much to drink. Here, take it back.”

He puts the flagon back on the counter, shoving it in Geralt’s direction with enough force that the drink sloshes inside. It’s still three-quarters full, and Geralt doesn’t know Jaskier to be a man for whom scarcely more than one drink could be considered ‘deep in his cups.’

“... Sorry,” Geralt mutters. “I saw a posting for a beast in the area, and -”

“- Oh, no, don’t -” Jaskier interrupts, palms out in a gesture of appeasement, “That’s not - I’m not so heartless as to prioritize my own sentiment over people’s lives, Geralt.”

“I know,” Geralt says, “but that doesn’t… mean it’s not there. I’m not going anywhere tonight, anyways.”

Jaskier turns his face into his palm, at that, but it’s not enough to hide the smile blooming across his face like a weed - bright as a dandelion, and just as hard to get rid of. The sight finally unwinds something that’s been held taught behind Geralt’s ribcage, and he summons up a smirk in return, snagging the rejected ale to take a swig of his own before returning it to Jaskier.

“Now drink your ale,” Geralt says, “and tell me how you’ve been, bard. Angered any husbands, recently?”

“Geralt!” Jaskier gasps, laughing. “Not a one, I’ll have you know! Now, _wives_ , on the other hand…”

The rest of the evening is good. Great, even - filled with familiar comradery, and made all the warmer for the relief of good company not lost. Jaskier is… not _quite_ open, not like before, but he laughs, and he jokes, and by the latest hours of the night, when they’re the last patrons still below and the proprietor is shooting them annoyed looks as she mops the floors, he’s managed to scoot his seat close enough that their arms lean together. Jaskier’s weight is warm against Geralt’s side, heavy with the relaxation of strong drink. His hair tickles citrus oil at the edges of Geralt’s senses in a welcome respite from the tang of alcohol the rest of the establishment is coated in.

“Y’know,” Jaskier mumbles, picking a thumb at his latest cup, “I actually just got into town. Haven’t had time to rent a room yet.”

“Is that your way of wheedling into mine?” Geralt asks. “I should warn you, all of my things are soaked through, so there’s no bed roll for you to sleep on.”

“Aw, come on, chum,” Jaskier presses, cajoling, and turns his face into Geralt’s shoulder. His breath whispers at Geralt’s neck, and his eyes are bright with the reflection of coals from the inn’s dimming fire. “Just for a night? I’m afraid I’m too out of sorts to count the coin dropped in my case tonight - look, I’ve got six fingers!”

He stretches a hand out, and while he definitely still has five fingers, the motion does send him swaying in a decidedly un-sober way. Geralt may have been a little too pleased to keep the ale flowing, though he did at least purchase a cheaper variety after the first mug.

Geralt sighs out a quiet laugh, and grabs the lute case from the floor before wrapping his arm around Jaskier’s shoulder. It’s getting cold in the inn, anyways, the fire long-since out and the late-night chill creeping in even through the warm haze of alcohol as rain continues to pour outside.

“Alright,” he agrees, “Up you go. Who knows what you’d do to a lute if you had six fingers instead of five.”

“A _lute!_ ” Jaskier snorts, “The lack of creativity in you, witcher. Think of the _women_ \- woah!”

He stumbles to his feet, saved from an untimely introduction of his face to a nearby table only by Geralt’s grip on his arm.

“Somehow, I don’t think most women would be as excited by a sixth finger as you are.”

“Ah, but think of the ones that _would_ be, Geralt!” Jaskier sings, immediately tripping over his feet again.

“How are you such a light-weight,” Geralt grunts, pointedly ignoring the rather numerous flagons on the table in favor of bending to grab Jaskier about the hips and heft him up onto his shoulder.

Jaskier yelps as he goes, and Geralt hears the distinct slapping sound of hand over mouth as his shoulder undoubtedly presses into Jaskier’s stomach.

“Mercy, witcher,” Jaskier groans, “I’m not gonna make it. _Oh_ , don’t sway, please...”

“Don’t vomit,” Geralt warns, and stabilizes himself with a trickling of embarrassment. It’s possible that Jaskier is not the only one affected by drink. Still, in the interest of not providing the poor innkeep with more of a mess to clean up, he hauls the both of them upstairs.

Jaskier manages not to throw up on the way, though there is one close call when Geralt accidentally makes a sharper turn than intended and beams him with a door frame. By the time they make it to Geralt’s room, they’re both groaning, and Geralt is soundly out of Jaskier’s requested _mercy_.

He dumps Jaskier from his shoulder directly onto the bed, and follows after only a moment later, heedless of the bounce that nearly throws the both of them off. Jaskier is definitely going to be hung over tomorrow. It’s possible that _Geralt_ is going to be hung over tomorrow, which is a rarer sight. They’re both still clothed, and lacking in the motivation to do more than lose their boots and outerwear before crawling under the covers.

Jaskier wriggles closer, shivering under the thin sheet that serves as a cover. He promptly sticks his cold nose under Geralt’s chin, sending him swearing up a storm.

“Shut up, shut up,” Jasker moans, “Geralt, I’m too drunk to move and it’s your fault. Take accountability for your actions and do me the mercy of warming me, at least.”

“How are you already an _icicle_ ,” Geralt hisses, pressing his similarly-frigid fingertips to the hollow of Jaskier’s lower back. Jaskier only yelps, flinching closer and nearly kneeing Geralt in the balls in the process.

Geralt wheezes. Jaskier snickers. By the time they manage to figure out a position to sleep in on the decidedly one-person bed that is satisfactory to both parties, Geralt has resigned himself to drifting off to the rhythmic puffs of warm breath on his collarbones as Jaskier curls in towards him as he would a campfire.

It’s… nice, overall. Nice that Jaskier trusts him to ask to stay in the room, nice that they can bicker and fall too deep in their cups without worry as friends do, even nice that Geralt knows Jaskier is going to wake him up tomorrow with his groaning and moaning about drawing the curtains on the sun.

 _It just_ , Geralt thinks as he drifts off to sleep, _feels right_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I'll be updating at least weekly! I hope you enjoyed the story so far, so please let me know what you thought in a comment! ^_^ And thank you to my friend [PinkAxolotl85](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkAxolotl85) for giving this a beta read for characterization and tone! <3


	2. and it's only you and me

When Geralt wakes up the next morning, the sun hasn’t risen yet, his head hurts, and his mouth is full of Jaskier’s hair. He chooses to forgive the universe for exactly one of those things, mostly because Jaskier’s hair being in his mouth probably means that his drool is on Jaskier’s head, and that seems like more than sufficient karmic recompense.

He groans as he sits up. The world rocks, just slightly. Jaskier shifts, flopping an arm over his eyes and mumbling a very distinct, “No.”

“Yes,” Geralt replies, shoving at his friend’s shoulder. Said friend curls up like a pillbug, and proceeds to steal the blanket.

Geralt sighs. They’re lucky if they’ve gotten four hours of sleep, but going back to bed sits ill with him with a monster on the loose and no real hardship to spend the night healing from. He can at least get both Jaskier and himself into presentable form, so he hunts down his boots from where he kicked them off the previous night and sets about carrying water to fill the tub situated behind a partition in their room.

It takes several trips, but fewer than if he had the strength of an average man. Geralt doesn’t bother waking any of the inn staff, choosing instead to heat the water with several judicious castings of _igni_ that send water boiling and steam curling into the cool morning air, and proceeds to clean himself of the previous night’s filth.

If he takes several mouthfuls of the bathwater prior to getting in to get rid of the ‘something died’ feeling on his tongue, well, Jaskier isn’t awake enough to notice. In fact, Jaskier doesn’t wake up until Geralt is up and dressed, at which point he physically drags Jaskier out of bed, strips his clothes, and dumps into the tub.

“ _Geralt!_ ” Jaskier shouts, and the rest of his suddenly very lively exclamation is quite literally drowned out when Geralt tips him into the water head first. He comes up looking like a drowned cat, wide-eyed and offended.

The look doesn’t last long as he realizes what Geralt has done, and melts into the warm water.

“I will forgive you,” Jaskier informs him, “ _just_ this once. But my god, Geralt, the sun hasn’t even risen yet. What _time_ is it? My head is still spinning.”

“It’ll be rising soon,” Geralt says, “and when it does, we need to have eaten and left. There’s no evidence this monster only hunts at night, so the more time we waste, the more people die.”

That little segue quiets Jaskier down very effectively, and he retreats into the water to scrub, presumably, Geralt’s drool out of his hair. He doesn’t even bother with half of the little vials and jars of scented oils and perfumes that he usually does, selecting instead the mere basics he sticks to when they are camping in the woods and cleaning himself quickly and efficiently.

“... That was a ‘we,’ then, was it?” Jaskier asks, rubbing at his scalp with his fingertips as he washes out the last of his soap.

Geralt jolts, straightening from where he’d started slumping over the back of his chair. He stares at Jaskier, unsure how to reply.

He… hadn’t even given the ‘we’ a second thought when he’d said it. He had just _assumed_ that Jaskier would like to come with him, for the sake of friendship or song or both, and neglected to so much as ask what Jaskier was even doing in Pont Vanis in the first place, aside from earning enough money to travel farther.

“Well, don’t strain yourself,” Jaskier jokes, huffing even as he ducks his head and pours water over it to avoid looking at Geralt. “I’ll come along, of course. I just wanted to make sure you _wanted_ me to.”

“I do,” Geralt says.

“Then it’s settled,” Jaskier nods. “But you’d better not make a habit of waking me up this early, Geralt. I’m honestly not sure I can make it downstairs in this state.”

“I can smell them starting to cook up breakfast.”

“By which I mean, of course, that I am absolutely going to make it downstairs posthaste, but that next time, perhaps, we should aim for the free _lunch_ instead.”

Geralt finds a smile pulling at his lips, and stands to throw Jaskier something to dry himself with. Jaskier is only putting voice to the annoyance and sleeplessness that Geralt is also feeling. He is relieved that Jaskier is willing to come along at such an ungodly hour of the morning, but it still chafes at him to force the both of them to this level of discomfort.

His relief at Jaskier’s acquiescence lasts until they leave the inn. Breakfast is a quick and quiet affair, both of them too occupied by food and sleepiness to make conversation, but when they step into the foggy morning sunrise, Geralt finds Jaskier balking at the threshold.

“What is it?” Geralt asks.

“Ah, nothing much, just…” Jaskier hedges, “are you certain about this job? It’s just a song, after all. No telling if it’s truly based on anything, really.”

“You wrote it, didn’t you?” Geralt asks. “Sounds like one of yours. Speaking of which, you never told me where you learned enough about the thing to write a whole song.”

“Oh, you know,” Jaskier shrugs, rubbing his hands together with a shiver as they start walking, “here and there. Local legends, mostly.”

A taciturn answer, by Jaskier’s usual metric. But the ground is still wet with the night’s rain, and his breath puffs out in tiny crystals of ice as they walk. Between the temperature and the early wake-up and the _undoubtedly_ pounding hangover, it’s very likely Jaskier isn’t feeling up for much of a chat.

“There’s a bounty,” Geralt informs him, and pulls the folded parchment out to show Jaskier. There it is, in print (impressive on its own, that whoever ordered the posting had the wealth and determination to have it _printed_ ) and signed by a Lady Prada Trisel of Pont Vanis.

Jaskier takes it, pale and numb-fingered, and mouths along with the words as he reads. The longer he goes, the more he shakes, and by the time he hands it back, his hands are trembling. He goes back to rubbing them together, and Geralt considers asking him if he’s even brought his traveling cloak to Pont Vanis, seeing as it is the summer capital of Kovir and Poviss, or if he thought that ‘summer capital’ meant that it was _warmer_ here rather than cooler.

They don’t have time to go back for it even if he brought it, though. Besides, the sun is rising, and the weather will warm up soon enough. It’s cooler by the coast, but not by very much.

“Are you telling me that you could have been getting enough material from ‘here and there’ and ‘local legends’ this whole time?” Geralt asks, feeling a little unmoored in the quiet. He’s used to quiet as he travels on his own, as much as the nature around him on the Path can truly be called quiet, but in Jaskier’s presence it feels oppressive. He should feel guilty, initiating like this just to try and drag words out of his clearly exhausted friend, but mostly he just wishes Jaskier would lead the conversation.

“Well, it takes a great deal more _work_ ,” Jaskier huffs. “Spit, grit, and most of all _creativity_ , which I know you hold umbrage with.”

“Yes, the line about eating pirate’s souls was inspired.”

“Are you _poking fun?_ ” Jaskier exclaims. “See if I ever write _you_ another ballad! Besides, there’s only so many times you can dig around in your own head to come up with the details before you exhaust them all and get repetitive. Hell, I hardly would’ve been able to write _this_ song if it weren’t for my experiences with you.”

“Would you?” Geralt can’t help but ask.

“What?”

“Write me another ballad.”

Jaskier bites his lip, and immediately nearly takes it off as he shivers. Geralt sighs and takes mercy, stepping closer and flipping the edge of his cloak over Jaskier’s shoulders. It’s still warm with his body heat, and the bard grasps at its free edge, ceasing his shivering almost immediately.

“Thanks,” Jaskier mumbles, huddling further into it until he’s inadvertently pulled Geralt down the couple of inches required to make them of a height. “And - I would, of course. Just don’t ask me to do it about the dragon hunt. There’s plenty of story to be embellished there, but…”

“... ‘and then the presumed hero of the story proceeded to drive off the sorceress and yell at his friend until he left, too’ doesn’t make for the best of lyrics?” Geralt suggests, tone dry even as his heart thumps loudly in his chest.

Jaskier barks a laugh at that, pitchy, and slaps a hand over his mouth. He knocks his knuckles against the armor across Geralt’s chest. “Don’t even joke,” he says. “I was heartbroken for days, you know.”

“I didn’t really expect that you would leave,” Geralt admits, and Jaskier _looks_ at him, something unidentifiable swimming in his eyes. Jaskier was doing that a lot the previous evening, too, and it’s giving Geralt an appreciation for the bard’s willingness to decipher _Geralt's_ comparatively sparse wording.

“I don’t know if that makes it better,” Jaskier murmurs, “or worse, really.”

Then there is silence, again, as they walk. Geralt doesn’t rightly know what Jaskier intended to mean with his words, nor how to properly ask about it. Something has changed since their confrontation - alright, since Geralt shouted his heartbreak and rage out at Jaskier - but not enough to stop Jaskier from accompanying Geralt. Not enough to stop him feeling safe sleeping in the same bed, or huddling under his cloak. He still trusts that they’ll _take care of_ each other.

But something is still _off_.

Geralt says nothing, and Jaskier doesn’t question him, not even to wonder about where they’re going. Geralt leads them to the town center to the alderman’s house-cum-office, and shakes Jaskier gently when they arrive so that he can watch Jaskier blink his bleary eyes open and hide a yawn behind an atrociously puffy sleeve. The thing has _ribbons_ lacing all the way up the wrists, like a pair of miniature corsets. Absolutely ridiculous. Geralt is mildly impressed that he’d managed to get it on, half-asleep as he is.

The alderman is similarly unhappy to receive them at the door. When he opens it, his face is already pulled into a deep-set frown that only worsens as his eyes catch on Geralt’s. It’s still early enough in the day that the sun isn’t shining brightly, so Geralt knows his eyes aren’t as slitted as they get at midday, but there’s still no passing them off as human. Not when the man is holding a lantern, the light of which is undoubtedly reflected in Geralt’s eyes with inhuman brightness.

“What the hell?” the alderman barks. He’s an elderly man. Geralt is pretty sure old people are supposed to go to bed early, so he’s not sure why _he’s_ so upset to be woken. “What do you want? Have you any idea what bleeding hour it is?”

Jaskier looks a tad more awake at that, all of a sudden, eyeing the man suspiciously as Geralt steps forward.

“Heard you have a sea monster problem,” Geralt says. “Came to take care of it, but won’t do it for free.”

Nevermind that Lady Trisel is already going to be paying him - the alderman doesn’t know that, and the nobility of this country can stand to part with some coin that they don’t strictly have to. Jaskier, having seen the bounty previously, looks absolutely _delighted_ as he realizes what Geralt is doing.

The alderman, despite not having seen the bounty, looks less delighted.

“What?” the man asks, squinting up at Geralt. “I didn’t send for a goddamned witcher. We’re fine folk, here, and we get by without the help of any _mutants_. Coming here, bothering us at such an hour, who the hell do you think you are?”

And there goes Jaskier’s expression, too. Jaskier scoffs, and thus earns himself the irked side-eye of both Geralt and the alderman.

“You’ve something to say, boy?” the alderman asks, earning himself another scoff, presumably because Jaskier-

Well. On second thought, he certainly does not resemble a man that recently passed what, to Geralt’s recollection, must at least be his fourth decade.

There’s something dawning, there, a realization that is about to crest - and it may have, if not for Jaskier himself, and his utterly distracting inability to let sleeping dogs lie.

“Oh, no,” Jaskier says, “Me? Something to say? Perish the thought. After all, you’ve said plenty yourself, good sir.”

The alderman’s frown turns into a pointed glare, and he outright spits at Geralt’s feet. The fat glob splatters across his boots, joining at least two other no-less-suspect stains of what Geralt recalls to be rotfiend viscera - notoriously difficult to scrub out, that. Geralt blinks once, slowly, and Jaskier properly flinches in his shock at the city councilman’s rather vehement showcasing of disrespect.

“That’s what I thought,” the alderman says. “Now get the hell out, before I revisit why the guards let that fuckin’ _thing_ into the city.”

Geralt gets out.

Jaskier… doesn’t, which after several moments of thought necessitates Geralt re-entering, and jerking him back by the forearm before he decks the elderly city alderman in the gut.

“Geralt, Geralt, let me go -” his friend yowls, riled up as any alley cat and thrashing like he’s gone _feral_. “Why, don’t you dare start about sporting fights, there was nothing _sporting_ about that - that _degenerate_ that calls himself an alderman, and he has it coming -”

“You’ve never played a day of sport in your life.”

“And I’m inclined to take up boxing this very day! Or fencing, here, lend me your sword - silver for monsters, isn’t it -?”

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt grits out, giving the bard a solid shake by the scruff of his doublet. It seems to do the trick, Jaskier settling back into his skin - or perhaps simply loathing to let Geralt abuse his clothing. Regardless, it works, and Geralt sets him back on his own two feet once they’re a safe distance from the local government offices.

“They’d hardly fault _you_ if an old man took a fist from some bard,” Jaskier mutters, re-affixing the ribbons at his sleeves. They did not have time to get into any state of disarray, but nonetheless perhaps offer Jaskier some way to occupy his hand and mind both as he seeks Geralt’s reassurance.

Truth be told, Geralt is grateful. There’s something about the extreme reaction Jaskier has to people’s cruelty towards witchers that makes the cruelty itself easier to bear. It’s hard to explain, really - perhaps it’s that Geralt’s attention goes to the focused task of keeping Jaskier from having the guards set on him, or perhaps it’s simply that the sting of injustice doesn’t cut so deep when someone so loudly proclaims it to be unjust.

Regardless, he can’t resent Jaskier for the reaction not permitted to Geralt himself when it so effectively smoothes his raised hackles.

“I didn’t realize that man played an instrument,” Geralt hums. Jaskier scoffs again, and knocks his shoulder against Geralt’s as they begin to walk down to a less officious part of town. Feeling generous, he lets himself sway to the side at the impact.

“First Yennefer with the crow’s feet and now you with the old man jokes,” Jaskier sniffs. “I’ll have you know, I don’t look a day over twenty-five.”

“... No,” Geralt agrees, giving Jaskier a look, “you don’t.”

Jaskier looks back, blank, before realizing Geralt isn’t going to elaborate on that. He smiles, half-confused, and goes back to tugging on his ribbons. “Well, you know what they say about good skincare.”

“I heard bathing in virgin blood was good for the skin. Not sure about you, but I guess _I_ get splattered in all sorts of blood often enough.”

“And your skin is beautiful for it, my dear,” Jaskier agrees as the crinkles at the corners of his eyes - not crow’s feet, but stress lines - finally smooth out. “Now, where are we going?”

“A brothel.”

“At _this_ time of day?” Jaskier exclaims.

“They’ll know more than the alderman,” Geralt explains, though he’s half-certain Jaskier only said it for the joke. “And if they’re not amenable to talking about it, I can at least pay them for it.”

Jaskier hums a thoughtful acknowledgment, as if he hadn’t considered such a use for brothels before. Geralt can’t rightfully say whether he has or hasn’t. This wouldn’t be their first time visiting one together, but Jaskier generally seemed more occupied by the _other_ aspects of brothels during those visits, and Geralt… well, sometimes ended up doing so as well.

And so they go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the surprise of absolutely nobody who has read my works before, the chapter count has increased! I have also almost entirely completed the rest of the story, which means that I’ll be posting this either weekly or, potentially more likely, as infrequently as my self control permits (which is to say, more often than weekly). Anyways, I have a lot of feelings about the Witcher, so please let me know what you thought in the comments! And thank you again to Axo for taking a look at this!
> 
> (Does Jaskier's inhumanly youthful appearance have anything to do with the actual story? No, but I have the power for long-lived Jaskier wish fulfillment, so here we are.)

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](https://prince-liest.tumblr.com/) || [Twitter](https://twitter.com/princeliest)


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